Landing in Latium and Italy's Armies

Thou also, Caieta, nurse of Aeneas, gavest our shores an everlasting renown in death; and still thine honour haunts thy resting-place, and a name in broad Hesperia, if that be glory, marks thy dust. But when the last rites are duly paid, and the mound smoothed over the grave, good Aeneas, now the high seas are hushed, bears on under sail and leaves his haven. Breezes blow into the night, and the white moonshine speeds them on; the sea glitters in her quivering radiance. Soon they skirt the shores of Circe's land, where the rich daughter of the Sun makes her untrodden groves echo with ceaseless song; and her stately house glows nightlong with burning odorous cedarwood, as she runs over her delicate web with the ringing comb. Hence are heard afar angry cries of lions chafing at their fetters and roaring in the deep night; bears and bristly swine rage in their pens, and vast shapes of wolves howl; whom with her potent herbs the deadly divine Circe had disfashioned, face and body, into wild beasts from the likeness of men. But lest the good Trojans might suffer so dread a change, might enter her haven or draw nigh the ominous shores, Neptune filled their sails with favourable winds, and gave them escape, and bore them past the seething shallows.

You too, Caieta, nurse of Aeneas, gave our shores lasting fame through your death. Your resting place still honors you, and your name marks your grave in broad Hesperia, if that is glory. After the funeral rites were complete and the burial mound smoothed over, the high seas grew calm. Good Aeneas set sail again and left his harbor. Breezes blew into the night, and the white moonlight sped them on. The sea glittered in its wavering light. Soon they sailed along the shores of Circe's land. There, the wealthy daughter of the Sun filled her untouched groves with endless song. Her stately house glowed all night with fragrant burning cedarwood. As she sang, she worked her delicate cloth with a ringing comb. From there, angry cries of lions could be heard far away. They strained against their chains and roared deep into the night. Bears and bristly pigs raged in their pens, and huge wolves howled. These had once been men, but the deadly goddess Circe had used her powerful herbs to transform their faces and bodies into those of wild beasts. But Neptune did not want the good Trojans to suffer such a dreadful change, enter Circe's harbor, or approach her ominous shores. So he filled their sails with favorable winds, gave them a way to escape, and carried them past the churning shallows.

And now the sea reddened with shafts of light, and high in heaven the yellow dawn shone rose-charioted; when the winds fell, and every breath sank suddenly, and the oar-blades toil through the heavy ocean-floor. And on this Aeneas descries from sea a mighty forest. Midway in it the pleasant Tiber stream breaks to sea in swirling eddies, laden with yellow sand. Around and above fowl many in sort, that haunt his banks and river-channel, solaced heaven with song and flew about the forest. He orders his crew to bend their course and turn their prows to land, and glides joyfully into the shady river.

Now the sea turned red with shafts of light, and the yellow dawn shone high in the sky in her rose-colored chariot. The winds fell, and every breath of air suddenly died. The oars strained through the heavy sea. Then Aeneas saw a great forest from the sea. Through its middle, the pleasant Tiber flowed into the sea in swirling eddies, carrying yellow sand. Many kinds of birds lived along its banks and in its channel. They filled the sky with song and flew around and above the forest. Aeneas ordered his crew to change course and turn their ships toward land. Joyfully, he sailed into the shady river.

Forth now, Erato! and I will unfold who were the kings, what the tides of circumstance, how it was with ancient Latium when first that foreign army drew their fleet ashore on Ausonia's coast; I will recall the preluding of battle. Thou, divine one, inspire thou thy poet. I will tell of grim wars, tell of embattled lines, of kings whom honour drove on death, of the Tyrrhenian forces, and all Hesperia enrolled in arms. A greater history opens before me, a greater work I essay.

Come now, Erato! I will tell who the kings were, what events unfolded, and what ancient Latium was like when the foreign army first landed its fleet on Ausonia's coast. I will recall the events leading up to battle. Divine one, inspire your poet. I will tell of grim wars, armies drawn up for battle, and kings driven to their deaths by honor. I will tell of the Tyrrhenian forces and all Hesperia called to arms. A greater history opens before me, and I undertake a greater work.

Latinus the King, now growing old, ruled in a long peace over quiet tilth and town. He, men say, was sprung of Faunus and the nymph Marica of Laurentum. Faunus' father was Picus; and he boasts himself, Saturn, thy son; thou art the first source of their blood. Son of his, by divine ordinance, and male descent was none, cut off in the early spring of youth. One alone kept the household and its august home, a daughter now ripe for a husband and of full years for marriage. Many wooed her from wide Latium and all Ausonia. Fairest and foremost of all is Turnus, of long and lordly ancestry; but boding signs from heaven, many and terrible, bar the way. Within the palace, in the lofty inner courts, was a laurel of sacred foliage, guarded in awe through many years, which lord Latinus, it was said, himself found and dedicated to Phoebus when first he would build his citadel; and from it gave his settlers their name, Laurentines. High atop of it, wonderful to tell, bees borne with loud humming across the liquid air girt it thickly about, and with interlinked feet hung in a sudden swarm from the leafy bough. Straightway the prophet cries: 'I see a foreigner draw nigh, an army from the same quarter seek the same quarter, and reign high in our fortress.' Furthermore, while maiden Lavinia stands beside her father feeding the altars with holy fuel, she was seen, oh, horror! to catch fire in her long tresses, and burn with flickering flame in all her array, her queenly hair lit up, lit up her jewelled circlet; till, enwreathed in smoke and lurid light, she scattered fire over all the palace. That sight was rumoured wonderful and terrible. Herself, they prophesied, she should be glorious in fame and fortune; but a great war was foreshadowed for her people. But the King, troubled by the omen, visits the oracle of his father Faunus the soothsayer, and the groves deep under Albunea, where, queen of the woods, she echoes from her holy well, and breathes forth a dim and deadly vapour. Hence do the tribes of Italy and all the Oenotrian land seek answers in perplexity; hither the priest bears his gifts, and when he hath lain down and sought slumber under the silent night on the spread fleeces of slaughtered sheep, sees many flitting phantoms of wonderful wise, hears manifold voices, and attains converse of the gods, and hath speech with Acheron and the deep tract of hell. Here then, likewise seeking an answer, lord Latinus paid fit sacrifice of an hundred woolly ewes, and lay couched on the strewn fleeces they had worn. Out of the lofty grove a sudden voice was uttered: 'Seek not, O my child, to unite thy daughter in Latin espousals, nor trust her to the bridal chambers ready to thine hand; foreigners shall come to be thy sons, whose blood shall raise our name to heaven, and the children of whose race shall see, where the circling sun looks on either ocean, all the rolling world swayed beneath their feet.' This his father Faunus' answer and counsel given in the silent night Latinus restrains not in his lips; but wide-flitting Rumour had already borne it round among the Ausonian cities, when the children of Laomedon moored their fleet to the grassy slope of the river bank.

King Latinus was growing old. He had long ruled peaceful fields and towns. People said he was descended from Faunus and the nymph Marica of Laurentum. Faunus’ father was Picus, who proudly claimed to be your son, Saturn. You are the first source of their bloodline. By divine decree, Latinus had no son to carry on his line. His son had been cut off in early youth. Only one child remained to inherit the family and its noble home, a daughter now old enough to marry. Many men from across Latium and all Ausonia sought her hand. The most handsome and distinguished of them was Turnus, who came from a long line of noble ancestors. But many terrible omens from heaven stood in the way. In the palace’s high inner courtyard stood a laurel tree with sacred leaves. It had been guarded with reverence for many years. People said that Latinus himself had found it when he first planned to build his citadel. He dedicated it to Phoebus and named his settlers Laurentines after it. Then, wonderful to tell, bees came humming loudly through the clear air. They clustered thickly around the top of the tree. Their feet linked together, and they hung in a sudden swarm from a leafy branch. At once the prophet cried: ‘I see a foreigner approaching. An army comes from the same direction and seeks the same place. It will rule high in our fortress.’ Then, while the maiden Lavinia stood beside her father, feeding the altars with sacred fuel, a dreadful sight appeared. Her long hair seemed to catch fire, and flames flickered over all her finery. Her queenly hair and her jeweled circlet were ablaze. Surrounded by smoke and a lurid glow, she scattered fire throughout the palace. News spread of the wonderful and terrible sight. The prophets said that Lavinia herself would win glory and good fortune. But they said the omen foretold a great war for her people. Troubled by the omen, the King visited the oracle of his father, Faunus the seer. He went to the deep groves beneath Albunea, queen of the woods. There she echoes from her sacred spring and breathes out a dark, deadly vapor. The tribes of Italy and all the Oenotrian land seek answers there when they are troubled. The priest brings his offerings and, in the silent night, lies down to sleep on the spread fleeces of slaughtered sheep. He sees many strange, fleeting visions and hears many voices. He speaks with the gods, with Acheron, and with the depths of hell. There, seeking an answer himself, lord Latinus duly sacrificed a hundred woolly ewes. He lay down on their fleeces, which had been spread out for him. Suddenly a voice spoke from the lofty grove: ‘My child, do not seek a Latin marriage for your daughter. Do not entrust her to the marriage already prepared for her. Foreigners will come to be your sons. Their blood will raise our name to heaven. Their descendants will see the whole world rolling beneath their feet, wherever the circling sun looks upon either ocean.’ Latinus did not keep to himself the answer and advice his father Faunus gave him in the silent night. Swift Rumour had already carried the news among the Ausonian cities when the children of Laomedon moored their fleet to the grassy riverbank.

Aeneas, with the foremost of his captains and fair Iülus, lay them down under the boughs of a high tree and array the feast. They spread wheaten cakes along the sward under their meats—so Jove on high prompted—and crown the platter of corn with wilding fruits. Here haply when the rest was spent, and scantness of food set them to eat their thin bread, and with hand and venturous teeth do violence to the round cakes fraught with fate and spare not the flattened squares: Ha! Are we eating our tables too? cries Iülus jesting, and stops. At once that accent heard set their toils a limit; and at once as he spoke his father caught it from his lips and hushed him, in amazement at the omen. Straightway 'Hail, O land!' he cries, 'my destined inheritance! and hail, O household gods, faithful to your Troy! here is home; this is our native country. For my father Anchises, now I remember it, bequeathed me this secret of fate: "When hunger shall drive thee, O son, to consume thy tables where the feast fails, on the unknown shores whither thou shalt sail; then, though outwearied, hope for home, and there at last let thine hand remember to set thy house's foundations and bulwarks." This was the hunger, this the last that awaited us, to set the promised end to our desolations . . . Up then, and, glad with the first sunbeam, let us explore and search all abroad from our harbour, what is the country, who its habitants, where is the town of the nation. Now pour your cups to Jove, and call in prayer on Anchises our father, setting the wine again upon the board.' So speaks he, and binding his brows with a leafy bough, he makes supplication to the Genius of the ground, and Earth first of deities, and the Nymphs, and the Rivers yet unknown; then calls on Night and Night's rising signs, and next on Jove of Ida, and our lady of Phrygia, and on his twain parents, in heaven and in the under world. At this the Lord omnipotent thrice thundered sharp from high heaven, and with his own hand shook out for a sign in the sky a cloud ablaze with luminous shafts of gold. A sudden rumour spreads among the Trojan array, that the day is come to found their destined city. Emulously they renew the feast, and, glad at the high omen, array the flagons and engarland the wine.

Aeneas, his leading captains, and fair Iülus lay down beneath the branches of a tall tree and set out their feast. They spread wheat cakes on the grass beneath their meat, as Jove above had prompted them to do. Then they piled wild fruit on the platter of bread. When the rest of the food happened to run out, they were still hungry and began to eat the thin bread. With their hands and bold teeth, they tore into the round cakes, which held their fate. They did not spare the flat pieces. Ha! Are we eating our tables too? Iülus cried jokingly, and fell silent. His words at once brought their hardships to an end. As soon as he spoke, his father seized on the words and quieted him, amazed by the omen. “Hail, land, my destined inheritance!” Aeneas cried at once. “And hail, household gods, faithful to your Troy! Here is our home. This is our native land. For now I remember a secret of fate that my father Anchises passed on to me: ‘When hunger drives you, my son, to eat your tables after your food runs out on the unknown shores where you land, then, though you are worn out, hope for a home. There at last, remember to lay the foundations and build the walls of your house.’ This was the hunger, the last that awaited us. It will bring our sufferings to their promised end . . . Come, then. At the first light of dawn, let us go out gladly from our harbor and explore the land. Let us find out what kind of country this is, who lives here, and where their city stands. Now pour your cups to Jove and call on our father Anchises in prayer. Set the wine on the table again.” So he spoke. Then he bound a leafy branch around his head and prayed to the spirit of the land. He prayed first to Earth among the gods, then to the Nymphs and the Rivers he did not yet know. Next he called on Night and the stars rising with Night. Then he called on Jove of Ida, our lady of Phrygia, and both his parents, one in heaven and one in the underworld. At this, the all-powerful Lord thundered sharply three times from high heaven. With his own hand he spread a cloud across the sky as a sign. It blazed with brilliant shafts of gold. A sudden rumor spread among the Trojan ranks: the day had come to found their destined city. Eagerly, they resumed the feast. Glad at the great omen, they set out the wine jugs and crowned them with garlands.

Soon as the morrow bathed the lands in its dawning light, they part to search out the town, and the borders and shores of the nation: these are the pools and spring of Numicus; this is the Tiber river; here dwell the brave Latins. Then the seed of Anchises commands an hundred envoys chosen of every degree to go to the stately royal city, all with the wreathed boughs of Pallas, to bear him gifts and desire grace for the Teucrians. Without delay they hasten on their message, and advance with swift step. Himself he traces the city walls with a shallow trench, and builds on it; and in fashion of a camp girdles this first settlement on the shore with mound and battlements. And now his men had traversed their way; they espied the towers and steep roofs of the Latins, and drew near the wall. Before the city boys and men in their early bloom exercise on horseback, and break in their teams on the dusty ground, or draw ringing bows, or hurl tough javelins from the shoulder, and contend in running and boxing: when a messenger riding forward brings news to the ears of the aged King that mighty men are come thither in unknown raiment. He gives orders to call them within his house, and takes his seat in the midst on his ancestral throne. His house, stately and vast, crowned the city, upreared on an hundred columns, once the palace of Laurentian Picus, amid awful groves of ancestral sanctity. Here their kings receive the inaugural sceptre, and have the fasces first raised before them; this temple was their senate-house; this their sacred banqueting-hall; here, after sacrifice of rams, the elders were wont to sit down at long tables. Further, there stood arow in the entry images of the forefathers of old in ancient cedar, Italus, and lord Sabinus, planter of the vine, still holding in show the curved pruning-hook, and gray Saturn, and the likeness of Janus the double-facing, and the rest of their primal kings, and they who had borne wounds of war in fighting for their country. Armour besides hangs thickly on the sacred doors, captured chariots and curved axes, helmet-crests and massy gateway-bars, lances and shields, and beaks torn from warships. He too sat there, with the divining-rod of Quirinus, girt in the short augural gown, and carrying on his left arm the sacred shield, Picus the tamer of horses; he whom Circe, desperate with amorous desire, smote with her golden rod and turned by her poisons into a bird with patches of colour on his wings. Of such wise was the temple of the gods wherein Latinus, sitting on his father's seat, summoned the Teucrians to his house and presence; and when they entered in, he thus opened with placid mien:

As soon as dawn lit the land the next morning, they set out to explore the town and the country's borders and shores. Here were the pools and spring of Numicus. Here was the Tiber river. Here the brave Latins lived. Then the son of Anchises ordered a hundred envoys, chosen from every rank, to go to the stately royal city. Each carried a wreathed branch of Pallas. They were to bring gifts to the king and ask him to welcome the Teucrians. Without delay, they hurried on their mission. Meanwhile, he marked out the city walls with a shallow trench and began to build. Like a camp, he surrounded this first settlement on the shore with an earthwork and battlements. By now his men had completed their journey. They saw the towers and steep roofs of the Latins and approached the city wall. Outside the city, boys and young men were exercising on horseback and training their teams on the dusty ground. Others drew ringing bows, threw tough javelins, or competed in running and boxing. Then a messenger rode ahead and told the aged King that mighty men in unfamiliar clothes had arrived. The King ordered them to be brought into his house and took his place on his ancestral throne. His stately, vast house stood above the city on a hundred columns. It had once been the palace of Laurentian Picus, surrounded by awe-inspiring groves sacred to his ancestors. Here their kings received the sceptre of office, and the fasces were first raised before them. This temple was their council chamber and sacred banqueting hall. Here, after sacrificing rams, the elders used to sit at long tables. In the entrance stood a row of ancient cedar images of their forefathers. There were Italus and lord Sabinus, who planted the vine, still holding a curved pruning-hook. There were also gray Saturn, two-faced Janus, and the rest of their earliest kings. Others had suffered wounds in war while fighting for their country. Armour hung thickly on the sacred doors. There were captured chariots and curved axes, helmet crests and massive gate bars, lances and shields, and rams torn from warships. Picus, the tamer of horses, also sat there. He held the divining rod of Quirinus, wore the short gown of an augur, and carried the sacred shield on his left arm. Desperate with love for him, Circe had struck him with her golden rod. With her poisons, she had turned him into a bird with patches of colour on his wings. Such was the temple of the gods where Latinus sat on his father's throne. There he summoned the Teucrians into his house and before him. When they entered, he began to speak with a calm expression:

'Tell, O Dardanians, for we are not ignorant of your city and race, nor unheard of do you bend your course overseas, what seek you? what the cause or whereof the need that hath borne you over all these blue waterways to the Ausonian shore? Whether wandering in your course, or tempest-driven (such perils manifold on the high seas do sailors suffer), you have entered the river banks and lie in harbour; shun not our welcome, and be not ignorant that the Latins are Saturn's people, whom no laws fetter to justice, upright of their own free will and the custom of the god of old. And now I remember, though the story is dimmed with years, thus Auruncan elders told, how Dardanus, born in this our country, made his way to the towns of Phrygian Ida and to the Thracian Samos that is now called Samothrace. Here was the home he left, Tyrrhenian Corythus; now the palace of heaven, glittering with golden stars, enthrones and adds him to the ranged altars of the gods.'

'Tell us, Dardanians, what you seek. We know of your city and people, and we know of your voyage overseas. What cause or need has brought you across all these blue waters to the Ausonian shore? Perhaps you lost your way, or a storm drove you here. Sailors face many such dangers on the high seas. Now that you have come up the river and lie in harbor, do not refuse our welcome. Know that the Latins are Saturn's people. No laws compel them to be just. They are upright of their own free will, following the custom of the god of old. Now I remember a story the Auruncan elders told, though it has grown dim with age. Dardanus was born here in our country. He traveled to the towns of Phrygian Ida and to Thracian Samos, now called Samothrace. He left his home here in Tyrrhenian Corythus. Now he sits enthroned in the palace of heaven, glittering with golden stars, and has an altar among the altars of the gods.'

He ended; and Ilioneus pursued his speech with these words:

He finished, and Ilioneus continued with these words:

'King, Faunus' illustrious progeny, neither hath black tempest driven us with stress of waves to shelter in your lands, nor hath star or shore misled us on the way we went. Of set purpose and willing mind do we draw nigh this thy city, outcasts from a realm once the greatest that the sun looked on as he came from Olympus' utmost border. From Jove hath our race beginning; in Jove the men of Dardania rejoice as ancestor; our King himself of Jove's supreme race, Aeneas of Troy, hath sent us to thy courts. How terrible the tempest that burst from fierce Mycenae over the plains of Ida, driven by what fate Europe and Asia met in the shock of two worlds, even he hath heard who is sundered in the utmost land where the ocean surge recoils, and he whom stretching midmost of the four zones the zone of the intolerable sun holds in severance. Borne by that flood over many desolate seas, we crave a scant dwelling for our country's gods, an unmolested landing-place, and the air and water that are free to all. We shall not disgrace the kingdom; nor will the rumour of your renown be lightly gone or the grace of all you have done fade away; nor will Ausonia be sorry to have taken Troy to her breast. By the fortunes of Aeneas I swear, by that right hand mighty, whether tried in friendship or in warlike arms, many and many a people and nation—scorn us not because we advance with hands proffering chaplets and words of supplication—hath sought us for itself and desired our alliance; but yours is the land that heaven's high ordinance drove us forth to find. Hence sprung Dardanus: hither Apollo recalls us, and pushes us on with imperious orders to Tyrrhenian Tiber and the holy pools of Numicus' spring. Further, he presents to thee these small guerdons of our past estate, relics saved from burning Troy. From this gold did lord Anchises pour libation at the altars; this was Priam's array when he delivered statutes to the nations assembled in order; the sceptre, the sacred mitre, the raiment wrought by the women of Ilium. . . .'

'King, illustrious descendant of Faunus, no dark storm has driven us to shelter on your shores. No star or coastline has led us astray. We come to your city by choice and with purpose. We are exiles from a kingdom once the greatest the sun looked upon as it rose from the far edge of Olympus. Our race began with Jove. The men of Dardania proudly claim Jove as their ancestor. Our king himself, Aeneas of Troy, is descended from Jove's supreme line, and he has sent us to your court. A terrible storm of war burst from fierce Mycenae over the plains of Ida. Fate drove Europe and Asia together in a clash of two worlds. Even those cut off in the farthest lands, where the ocean waves turn back, have heard of it. So have those separated from us by the central zone of the four, where the sun's heat is unbearable. That flood has carried us across many desolate seas. We ask for a small home for our country's gods, a place to land in peace, and the air and water that are free to all. We shall not disgrace your kingdom. The fame of your renown will not quickly pass, nor will gratitude for all you have done fade away. Ausonia will not regret taking Troy to her breast. I swear by the fortunes of Aeneas and by his right hand, mighty in friendship and in war, that many peoples and nations have sought our alliance. Do not scorn us because we come with garlands in our hands and pleas on our lips. Heaven's high command drove us out to find your land. Dardanus came from here. Apollo calls us back here and commands us to press on to the Tyrrhenian Tiber and the sacred pools of Numicus' spring. Aeneas also presents you with these small gifts from our former wealth, relics saved from burning Troy. Lord Anchises poured offerings at the altars from this gold. These were Priam's royal possessions when he gave laws to the nations assembled in order: the sceptre, the sacred mitre, and the garments made by the women of Ilium. . . .'

At these words of Ilioneus Latinus holds his countenance in a steady gaze, and stays motionless on the floor, casting his intent eyes around. Nor does the embroidered purple so move the King, nor the sceptre of Priam, as his daughter's marriage and the bridal chamber absorb him, and the oracle of ancient Faunus stirs deep in his heart. This is he, the wanderer from a foreign home, foreshewn of fate for his son, and called to a realm of equal dominion, whose race should be excellent in valour and their might overbear all the world. At last he speaks with good cheer:

At these words from Ilioneus, Latinus keeps his face steady and remains motionless on the floor, looking around intently. The embroidered purple cloth and Priam's scepter move the King less than thoughts of his daughter's marriage and bridal chamber. The prophecy of ancient Faunus stirs deep in his heart. This is the wanderer from a foreign land whom fate foretold as his son-in-law. He is called to share equal rule over the kingdom. His descendants will be famed for their courage, and their power will overcome all the world. At last Latinus speaks cheerfully:

'The gods prosper our undertaking and their own augury! What thou desirest, Trojan, shall be given; nor do I spurn your gifts. While Latinus reigns you shall not lack foison of rich land nor Troy's own riches. Only let Aeneas himself come hither, if desire of us be so strong, if he be in haste to join our friendship and be called our ally. Let him not shrink in terror from a friendly face. A term of the peace for me shall be to touch your monarch's hand. Do you now convey in answer my message to your King. I have a daughter whom the oracles of my father's shrine and many a celestial token alike forbid me to unite to one of our own nation; sons shall come, they prophesy, from foreign coasts, such is the destiny of Latium, whose blood shall exalt our name to heaven. He it is on whom fate calls; this I think, this I choose, if there be any truth in my soul's foreshadowing.'

'May the gods make our undertaking prosper and fulfill their own prophecy! You shall have what you ask, Trojan. I do not reject your gifts. While Latinus reigns, you shall have plenty of rich land and the riches of Troy itself. Only let Aeneas himself come here, if he truly wishes to meet us and become our friend and ally. Let him not be afraid to meet a friendly face. For my part, sealing the peace requires a handshake with your king. Now take my reply to your King. I have a daughter, but the oracles at my father's shrine forbid me to marry her to one of our own people. Many signs from heaven forbid it too. They prophesy that sons will come from foreign shores. This is the destiny of Latium. Their descendants will raise our name to heaven. He is the one fate calls. This is what I believe and what I choose, if there is any truth in my heart's foreboding.'

Thus he speaks, and chooses horses for all the company. Three hundred stood sleek in their high stalls; for all the Teucrians in order he straightway commands them to be led forth, fleet-footed, covered with embroidered purple: golden chains hang drooping over their chests, golden their housings, and they champ on bits of ruddy gold: for the absent Aeneas a chariot and pair of chariot horses of celestial breed, with nostrils breathing flame; of the race of those which subtle Circe bred by sleight on her father, the bastard issue of a stolen union. With these gifts and words the Aeneadae ride back from Latinus carrying peace.

He speaks and chooses horses for the whole company. Three hundred sleek horses stood in their high stalls. He immediately orders them brought out for all the Teucrians, one by one. The horses are swift and covered in embroidered purple cloth. Golden chains hang over their chests, their trappings are gold, and they chew on bits of reddish gold. For the absent Aeneas, he provides a chariot and a pair of horses of heavenly breed, with flames breathing from their nostrils. They are descended from horses that cunning Circe bred through trickery with her father, the offspring of a stolen union. With these gifts and words, the Aeneadae ride back from Latinus, bringing peace.

And lo! the fierce wife of Jove was returning from Inachian Argos, and held her way along the air, when out of the distant sky, far as from Sicilian Pachynus, she espied the rejoicing of Aeneas and the Dardanian fleet. She sees them already house-building, already trusting in the land, their ships left empty. She stops, shot with sharp pain; then shaking her head, she pours forth these words:

Jove's fierce wife was returning through the air from Inachian Argos. From far away in the sky, as far as Sicilian Pachynus, she saw Aeneas and the Dardanian fleet rejoicing. She saw that they were already building houses and trusting in the land, with their ships empty. She stopped, struck by sharp pain. Then she shook her head and spoke:

'Ah, hated brood, and doom of the Phrygians that thwarts our doom! Could they perish on the Sigean plains? Could they be ensnared when taken? Did the fires of Troy consume her people? Through the midst of armies and through the midst of flames they have found their way. But, I think, my deity lies at last outwearied, or my hatred sleeps and is satisfied? Nay, it is I who have been fierce to follow them over the waves when hurled from their country, and on all the seas have crossed their flight. Against the Teucrians the forces of sky and sea are spent. What hath availed me Syrtes or Scylla, what desolate Charybdis? they find shelter in their desired Tiber-bed, careless of ocean and of me. Mars availed to destroy the giant race of the Lapithae; the very father of the gods gave over ancient Calydon to Diana's wrath: for forfeit of what crime in the Lapithae, what in Calydon? But I, Jove's imperial consort, who have borne, ah me! to leave naught undared, who have shifted to every device, I am vanquished by Aeneas. If my deity is not great enough, I will not assuredly falter to seek succour where it may be; if the powers of heaven are inflexible, I will stir up Acheron. It may not be to debar him of a Latin realm; well; and Lavinia is destined his bride unalterably. But it may be yet to defer, to make all this action linger; but it may be yet to waste away the nation of either king; at such forfeit of their people may son-in-law and father-in-law enter into union. Blood of Troy and Rutulia shall be thy dower, O maiden, and Bellona is the bridesmaid who awaits thee. Nor did Cisseus' daughter alone conceive a firebrand and travail of bridal flames. Nay, even such a birth hath Venus of her own, a second Paris, another balefire for Troy towers reborn.'

'Ah, hated brood! The doom of the Phrygians thwarts my own! Could they die on the Sigean plains? Could they be trapped when captured? Did the fires of Troy consume her people? They have found their way through armies and flames alike. But perhaps my divine power is finally exhausted, or my hatred sleeps, satisfied? No, I pursued them fiercely across the waves when they were driven from their country. I blocked their flight on every sea. The forces of sky and sea have been spent against the Teucrians. What good have Syrtes or Scylla or desolate Charybdis done me? They find shelter in their longed-for Tiber-bed, free from fear of the sea and of me. Mars had the power to destroy the giant race of the Lapithae. The father of the gods himself gave ancient Calydon over to Diana's wrath. What crime had the Lapithae or Calydon committed to deserve such punishment? But I, Jove's queen, have dared everything and tried every means. Alas, Aeneas has defeated me. If my divine power is not great enough, I will surely seek help wherever I can. If the powers of heaven will not bend, I will stir up Acheron. Perhaps I cannot keep him from a kingdom in Latium. Very well. Lavinia is destined to be his bride, and that cannot be changed. But perhaps I can still delay it and drag out the whole affair. Perhaps I can still destroy the people of both kings. Father-in-law and son-in-law may join their families at the cost of their people. O maiden, the blood of Troy and Rutulia shall be your dowry. Bellona awaits you as your bridesmaid. Cisseus' daughter was not the only one to conceive a firebrand and give birth to flames for a wedding. Venus too has borne such a child of her own, a second Paris, another fire to destroy Troy's rebuilt towers.'

These words uttered, she descends to earth in all her terrors, and calls dolorous Allecto from the home of the Fatal Sisters in nether gloom, whose delight is in woeful wars, in wrath and treachery and evil feuds: hateful to lord Pluto himself, hateful and horrible to her hell-born sisters; into so many faces does she turn, so savage the guise of each, so thick and black bristles she with vipers. And her Juno spurs on with words, saying thus:

After saying this, she descends to earth in all her terror. From the home of the Fatal Sisters in the darkness below, she summons sorrowful Allecto. Allecto delights in wretched wars, anger, treachery, and bitter feuds. Even lord Pluto hates her, and her hell-born sisters find her hateful and horrible. She takes so many forms, each with a savage face, and bristles with thick black vipers. Juno urges her on with these words:

'Grant me, virgin born of Night, this thy proper task and service, that the rumour of our renown may not crumble away, nor the Aeneadae have power to win Latinus by marriage or beset the borders of Italy. Thou canst set brothers once united in armed conflict, and overturn families with hatreds; thou canst launch into houses thy whips and deadly brands; thine are a thousand names, a thousand devices of injury. Stir up thy teeming breast, sunder the peace they have joined, and sow seeds of quarrel; let all at once desire and demand and seize on arms.'

'Virgin born of Night, grant me this service, the task that belongs to you. Do it so that the fame of our glory will not fade, and the Aeneadae cannot win Latinus through marriage or threaten Italy's borders. You can set brothers who were once united against each other in armed conflict. You can tear families apart with hatred. You can send your whips and deadly torches into their homes. You have a thousand names and a thousand ways to do harm. Stir up all the anger in your heart. Break the peace they have made and sow the seeds of quarrel. Let them all at once desire, demand, and seize arms.'

Thereon Allecto, steeped in Gorgonian venom, first seeks Latium and the high house of the Laurentine monarch, and silently sits down before Amata's doors, whom a woman's distress and anger heated to frenzy over the Teucrians' coming and the marriage of Turnus. At her the goddess flings a snake out of her dusky tresses, and slips it into her bosom to her very inmost heart, that she may embroil all her house under its maddening magic. Sliding between her raiment and smooth breasts, it coils without touch, and instils its viperous breath unseen; the great serpent turns into the twisted gold about her neck, turns into the long ribbon of her chaplet, inweaves her hair, and winds slippery over her body. And while the gliding infection of the clammy poison begins to penetrate her sense and run in fire through her frame, nor as yet hath all her breast caught fire, softly she spoke and in mothers' wonted wise, with many a tear over her daughter and the Phrygian bridal:

Then Allecto, steeped in Gorgonian venom, went first to Latium and the high house of the Laurentine king. She sat silently before Amata's doors. Distress and anger over the arrival of the Teucrians and the marriage of Turnus had driven Amata into a frenzy. The goddess flung a snake from her dark hair at Amata. She slipped it into Amata's bosom and sent it to her innermost heart, so its maddening magic would throw her whole household into turmoil. The snake slid between her clothing and her smooth breasts. It coiled there without her feeling it and breathed its viperous poison into her unseen. The great serpent became the twisted gold around her neck, then the long ribbon of her chaplet. It wove itself into her hair and slipped in coils over her body. The clammy poison began to creep into her mind and burn through her body. But before its fire had yet filled her whole heart, she spoke softly, as mothers do. She shed many tears over her daughter and the Phrygian marriage:

'Is it to exiles, to Teucrians, that Lavinia is proffered in marriage, O father? and hast thou no compassion on thy daughter and on thyself? no compassion on her mother, whom with the first northern wind the treacherous rover will abandon, steering to sea with his maiden prize? Is it not thus the Phrygian herdsman wound his way to Lacedaemon, and carried Leda's Helen to the Trojan towns? Where is thy plighted faith? Where thine ancient care for thy people, and the hand Turnus thy kinsman hath so often clasped? If one of alien race from the Latins is sought for our son, if this stands fixed, and thy father Faunus' commands are heavy upon thee, all the land whose freedom severs it from our sway is to my mind alien, and of this is the divine word. And Turnus, if one retrace the earliest source of his line, is born of Inachus and Acrisius, and of the midmost of Mycenae.'

'Father, are you offering Lavinia in marriage to exiles, to Teucrians? Have you no compassion for your daughter or yourself? None for her mother? With the first northern wind, that treacherous wanderer will abandon her. He will sail away with the maiden as his prize. Isn't that how the Phrygian shepherd made his way to Lacedaemon? Didn't he carry Leda's Helen off to the Trojan towns? Where is your sworn promise? Where is your long-standing care for your people? What of the hand your kinsman Turnus has so often clasped? If you seek a son-in-law from a people other than the Latins, if your mind is made up, and your father Faunus' commands weigh heavily on you, then hear me. I believe all lands free from our rule are foreign, and that is what the divine word means. And if you trace Turnus' ancestry back to its earliest source, he descends from Inachus and Acrisius, from the very heart of Mycenae.'

When in this vain essay of words she sees Latinus fixed against her, and the serpent's maddening poison is sunk deep in her vitals and runs through and through her, then indeed, stung by infinite horrors, hapless and frenzied, she rages wildly through the endless city. As whilome a top flying under the twisted whipcord, which boys busy at their play drive circling wide round an empty hall, runs before the lash and spins in wide gyrations; the witless ungrown band hang wondering over it and admire the whirling boxwood; the strokes lend it life: with pace no slacker is she borne midway through towns and valiant nations. Nay, she flies into the woodland under feigned Bacchic influence, assumes a greater guilt, arouses a greater frenzy, and hides her daughter in the mountain coverts to rob the Teucrians of their bridal and stay the marriage torches. 'Hail, Bacchus!' she shrieks and clamours; 'thou only art worthy of the maiden; for to thee she takes up the lissom wands, thee she circles in the dance, to thee she trains and consecrates her tresses.' Rumour flies abroad; and the matrons, their breasts kindled by the furies, run all at once with a single ardour to seek out strange dwellings. They have left their homes empty, they throw neck and hair free to the winds; while others fill the air with ringing cries, girt about with fawnskins, and carrying spears of vine. Amid them the infuriate queen holds her blazing pine-torch on high, and chants the wedding of Turnus and her daughter; and rolling her bloodshot gaze, cries sudden and harsh: 'Hear, O mothers of Latium, wheresoever you be; if unhappy Amata hath yet any favour in your affection, if care for a mother's right pierces you, untie the chaplets from your hair, begin the orgies with me.' Thus, amid woods and wild beasts' solitary places, does Allecto goad the queen with the encircling Bacchic madness.

She sees that her attempt to persuade Latinus has failed. He remains firm against her. The serpent's maddening poison has sunk deep into her body and spread throughout her. Tormented by endless horrors, the unhappy, frenzied queen rages wildly through the vast city. She is like a spinning top driven by a twisted whip. Boys at play send it circling around an empty hall, and it spins and darts before the lash. The foolish young children crowd around in wonder, admiring the whirling boxwood. Each stroke gives it life. Just as swiftly, the queen rushes through towns and among valiant nations. She even flees into the woods, pretending to be possessed by Bacchus. She takes on greater guilt and stirs up greater madness. She hides her daughter in the mountain thickets to deny the Teucrians their bride and stop the wedding torches. 'Hail, Bacchus!' she cries. 'You alone are worthy of the maiden. For you she takes up the supple wands, for you she dances in circles, and to you she dedicates and consecrates her hair.' Word spreads, and the matrons' hearts are set aflame by the furies. All at once, they rush out with one purpose to seek strange dwellings. They leave their homes empty and bare their necks and hair to the wind. Others fill the air with ringing cries, dressed in fawnskins and carrying vine spears. Among them, the furious queen holds her blazing pine torch high and chants of the marriage of Turnus and her daughter. Rolling her bloodshot eyes, she suddenly cries out in a harsh voice: 'Hear me, mothers of Latium, wherever you are. If unhappy Amata still has any place in your hearts, if a mother's rights matter to you, untie the wreaths from your hair and join me in the orgies.' Thus, among the woods and the lonely haunts of wild beasts, Allecto drives the queen into Bacchic madness that spreads around her.

When their frenzy seemed heightened and her first task complete, the purpose and all the house of Latinus turned upside down, the dolorous goddess flies on thence, soaring on dusky wing, to the walls of the gallant Rutulian, the city which Danaë, they say, borne down on the boisterous south wind, built and planted with Acrision's people. The place was called Ardea once of old; and still Ardea remains a mighty name; but its fortune is no more. Here in his high house Turnus now took rest in the black midnight. Allecto puts off her grim feature and the body of a Fury; she transforms her face to an aged woman's, and furrows her brow with ugly wrinkles; she puts on white tresses chaplet-bound, and entwines them with an olive spray; she becomes aged Calybe, priestess of Juno's temple, and presents herself before his eyes, uttering thus:

Their frenzy seemed to have reached its height, and Allecto’s first task was complete. The sorrowful goddess had thrown Latinus’s plans and his whole household into turmoil. Now she flew on dark wings to the walls of the city of the brave Rutulian. They say Danaë, carried there by the fierce south wind, built the city and settled it with Acrision’s people. Long ago it was called Ardea, and Ardea is still a mighty name. But its fortune is gone. There, in his lofty house, Turnus lay resting in the darkness of midnight. Allecto shed her grim features and her Fury’s body. She changed her face into that of an old woman, with ugly wrinkles across her brow. She put on white hair bound with a garland and wove an olive branch through it. She became the aged Calybe, priestess of Juno’s temple. Then she appeared before Turnus and spoke:

'Turnus, wilt thou brook all these toils poured out in vain, and the conveyance of thy crown to Dardanian settlers? The King denies thee thy bride and the dower thy blood had earned; and a foreigner is sought for heir to the kingdom. Forth now, dupe, and face thankless perils; forth, cut down the Tyrrhenian lines; give the Latins peace in thy protection. This Saturn's omnipotent daughter in very presence commanded me to pronounce to thee, as thou wert lying in the still night. Wherefore arise, and make ready with good cheer to arm thy people and march through thy gates to battle; consume those Phrygian captains that lie with their painted hulls in the beautiful river. All the force of heaven orders thee on. Let King Latinus himself know of it, unless he consents to give thee thy bridal, and abide by his words, when he shall at last make proof of Turnus' arms.'

'Turnus, will you endure all these wasted efforts and see your crown handed over to Dardanian settlers? The King denies you your bride and the dowry your blood has earned. He seeks a foreigner to inherit the kingdom. Go on, fool, and face dangers no one will thank you for. Go on, cut down the Tyrrhenian ranks and protect the Latins so they can live in peace. Saturn's all-powerful daughter appeared before me and ordered me to tell you this as you lay in the still night. So rise, and gladly prepare to arm your people. March through your gates into battle. Destroy those Phrygian captains lying in the beautiful river with their painted ships. All the power of heaven commands you to go. Let King Latinus himself learn of it when he finally feels the force of Turnus' arms, unless he agrees to give you your bride and keep his word.'

But he, deriding her inspiration, with the words of his mouth thus answers her again:

But he mocked her inspiration and answered her again:

'The fleets ride on the Tiber wave; that news hath not, as thou deemest, escaped mine ears. Frame not such terrors before me. Neither is Queen Juno forgetful of us. . . . But thee, O mother, overworn old age, exhausted and untrue, frets with vain distress, and amid embattled kings mocks thy presage with false dismay. Thy charge it is to keep the divine image and temple; war and peace shall be in the hands of men and warriors.'

'The fleets are on the Tiber. Despite what you think, I have heard the news. Do not frighten me with such things. Queen Juno has not forgotten us either. . . . But mother, your worn-out old age leaves you weak and unreliable. It troubles you with needless worry. Among kings armed for battle, it mocks your predictions with false fears. Your duty is to care for the divine image and the temple. War and peace are for men and warriors to decide.'

At such words Allecto's wrath blazed out. But amid his utterance a quick shudder overruns his limbs; his eyes are fixed in horror; so thickly hiss the snakes of the Fury, so vast her form expands. Then rolling her fiery eyes, she thrust him back as he would stammer out more, raised two serpents in her hair, and, sounding her whip, resumed with furious tone:

At these words, Allecto’s anger flared. But while he was still speaking, a sudden shudder ran through him. His eyes froze in horror as the Fury’s snakes hissed all around her and her form grew enormous. Then she rolled her fiery eyes and pushed him back as he tried to stammer out more. She raised two snakes in her hair, cracked her whip, and spoke again in a furious voice:

'Behold me the overworn! me whom old age, exhausted and untrue, mocks with false dismay amid embattled kings! Look on this! I am come from the home of the Dread Sisters: war and death are in my hand. . . .'

'Look at me, worn out! Old age has drained my strength and betrayed me. It mocks me with false fears among kings at war! Look at this! I have come from the home of the Dread Sisters. War and death are in my hand. . . .'

So speaking, she hurled her torch at him, and pierced his breast with the lurid smoking brand. He breaks from sleep in overpowering fear, his limbs and body bathed in sweat that breaks out all over him; he shrieks madly for arms, searches for arms on his bed and in his palace. The passion of the sword rages high, the accursed fury of war, and wrath over all: even as when flaming sticks are heaped roaring loud under the sides of a seething cauldron, and the boiling water leaps up; the river of water within smokes furiously and swells high in overflowing foam, and now the wave contains itself no longer; the dark steam flies aloft. So, for the stain of the broken peace, he orders his chief warriors to march on King Latinus, and bids prepare for battle, to defend Italy and drive the foe from their borders; himself will suffice for Trojans and Latins together. When he uttered these words and called the gods to hear his vows, the Rutulians stir one another up to arms. One is moved by the splendour of his youthful beauty, one by his royal ancestry, another by the noble deeds of his hand.

As she spoke, she hurled her torch at him, piercing his chest with its ghastly, smoking flame. He woke in overpowering fear, sweat pouring over his body and limbs. He shrieked wildly for weapons, searching for them on his bed and throughout his palace. A passion for the sword raged in him, along with the cursed fury of war and, above all, anger. He was like a boiling cauldron with blazing logs piled beneath it, roaring with heat. The water inside steamed fiercely and rose in overflowing foam. At last, the water could no longer be contained, and dark steam rose into the air. So, to avenge the stain of the broken peace, he ordered his chief warriors to march against King Latinus. He told them to prepare for battle, to defend Italy and drive the enemy from their borders. He declared that he alone could deal with Trojans and Latins together. After he said this and called on the gods to witness his vows, the Rutulians urged one another to take up arms. One was moved by the splendor of his youthful beauty, another by his royal ancestry, and another by his noble deeds.

While Turnus fills the Rutulian minds with valour, Allecto on Stygian wing hastens towards the Trojans. With fresh wiles she marked the spot where beautiful Iülus was trapping and coursing game on the bank; here the infernal maiden suddenly crosses his hounds with the maddening touch of a familiar scent, and drives them hotly on the stag-hunt. This was the source and spring of ill, and kindled the country-folk to war. The stag, beautiful and high-antlered, was stolen from his mother's udder and bred by Tyrrheus' boys and their father Tyrrheus, master of the royal herds, and ranger of the plain. Their sister Silvia tamed him to her rule, and lavished her care on his adornment, twining his antlers with delicate garlands, and combed his wild coat and washed him in the clear spring. Tame to her hand, and familiar to his master's table, he would wander the woods, and, however late the night, return home to the door he knew. Far astray, he floated idly down the stream, and allayed his heat on the green bank, when Iülus' mad hounds started him in their hunting; and Ascanius himself, kindled with desire of the chief honour, aimed a shaft from his bended bow. A present deity suffered not his hand to stray, and the loud whistling reed came driven through his belly and flanks. But the wounded beast fled within the familiar roof and crept moaning to the courtyard, dabbled with blood, and filling all the house with moans as of one beseeching. Sister Silvia, smiting her arms with open hands, begins to call for aid, and gathers the hardy rustics with her cries. They, for a fell destroyer is hidden in the silent woodland, are there before her expectation, one armed with a stake hardened in the fire, one with a heavy knotted trunk; what each one searches and finds, wrath turns into a weapon. Tyrrheus cheers on his array, panting hard, with his axe caught up in his hand, as he was haply splitting an oaken log in four clefts with cross-driven wedges.

While Turnus fills the Rutulians with courage, Allecto flies swiftly toward the Trojans on her Stygian wings. Seeking fresh mischief, she spots beautiful Iülus trapping and chasing game by the river. The infernal maiden suddenly sends a familiar scent across the path of his hounds. Its maddening touch drives them eagerly after a stag. This was the beginning of disaster, and it stirred the country people to war. The beautiful, high-antlered stag had been taken from his mother while still nursing. Tyrrheus and his sons had raised him. Tyrrheus was master of the royal herds and keeper of the plain. His daughter Silvia tamed the stag and took great care to adorn him. She wound delicate garlands around his antlers, combed his wild coat, and washed him in the clear spring. He was tame under her hand and familiar with his master's table. He would wander through the woods, but always returned to the door he knew, however late at night. The stag had wandered far from home. He was drifting idly down the stream, cooling himself by the green bank, when Iülus' frenzied hounds startled him. Ascanius himself, eager to win the greatest honor, aimed an arrow from his bent bow. A god was there and did not allow his hand to miss. The arrow whistled loudly as it pierced the stag's belly and flanks. But the wounded animal fled under the familiar roof and crept, moaning, into the courtyard. He was covered in blood, and his cries filled the house like those of someone begging for help. Silvia struck her arms with her open hands and called for help. Her cries brought the hardy countrymen together. Because a deadly destroyer was hidden in the silent woods, they arrived sooner than she expected. One carried a stake hardened in fire, another a heavy, knotted tree trunk. In their anger, they turned whatever they could find into a weapon. Tyrrheus urged his men on, panting hard and clutching his axe. He had happened to be splitting an oak log into four pieces with wedges driven across it.

But the grim goddess, seizing from her watch-tower the moment of mischief, seeks the steep farm-roof and sounds the pastoral war-note from the ridge, straining the infernal cry on her twisted horn; it spread shuddering over all the woodland, and echoed through the deep forests: the lake of Trivia heard it afar; Nar river heard it with white sulphurous water, and the springs of Velinus; and fluttered mothers clasped their children to their breast. Then, hurrying to the voice of the terrible trumpet-note, on all sides the wild rustics snatch their arms and stream in: therewithal the men of Troy pour out from their camp's open gates to succour Ascanius. The lines are ranged; not now in rustic strife do they fight with hard trunks or burned stakes; the two-edged steel sways the fight, the broad cornfields bristle dark with drawn swords, and brass flashes smitten by the sunlight, and casts a gleam high into the cloudy air: as when the wind begins to blow and the flood to whiten, gradually the sea lifts his waves higher and yet higher, then rises from the bottom right into the air. Here in the front rank young Almo, once Tyrrheus' eldest son, is struck down by a whistling arrow; for the wound, staying in his throat, cut off in blood the moist voice's passage and the thin life. Around many a one lies dead, aged Galaesus among them, slain as he throws himself between them for a peacemaker, once incomparable in justice and wealth of Ausonian fields; for him five flocks bleated, a five-fold herd returned from pasture, and an hundred ploughs upturned the soil.

But the grim goddess, watching from her tower, seized her chance to cause trouble. She climbed to the ridge of a steep farmhouse roof and sounded a shepherd’s call to war. She blew the hellish cry with all her strength through her twisted horn. The sound spread with a shudder through all the woods and echoed through the deep forests. Far away, the lake of Trivia heard it, as did the Nar river, white with sulfur, and the springs of Velinus. Frightened mothers held their children close to their breasts. Then wild countrymen from every side seized their weapons and rushed toward the terrible trumpet blast. At the same time, the men of Troy poured through the open gates of their camp to help Ascanius. The battle lines formed. They no longer fought a country skirmish with hard tree trunks or fire-hardened stakes. Double-edged steel now decided the battle. The broad cornfields bristled darkly with drawn swords. Bronze armor flashed in the sunlight, sending its gleam high into the cloudy air. It was like the sea when the wind begins to blow and the waters turn white. Gradually the waves rise higher and higher, until the sea surges from its depths into the air. There in the front rank, young Almo, once Tyrrheus’ eldest son, was struck down by a whistling arrow. It lodged in his throat, and the wound filled with blood, cutting off his voice and his frail life. Many others lay dead around him, including the aged Galaesus. He was killed as he threw himself between the fighters to make peace. In his time, no one among the Ausonian landowners had matched his justice or wealth. Five flocks bleated for him, five herds returned from pasture, and a hundred ploughs turned his soil.

But while thus in even battle they fight on the broad plain, the goddess, her promise fulfilled, when she hath dyed the war in blood, and mingled death in the first encounter, quits Hesperia, and, glancing through the sky, addresses Juno in exultant tone:

But as they fight evenly on the broad plain, the goddess fulfills her promise. She has stained the war with blood and brought death into the first encounter. Now she leaves Hesperia, glides through the sky, and speaks to Juno in triumph:

'Lo, discord is ripened at thy desire into baleful war: tell them now to mix in amity and join alliance. Insomuch as I have imbued the Trojans in Ausonian blood, this likewise will I add, if I have assurance of thy will. With my rumours I will sweep the bordering towns into war, and kindle their spirit with furious desire for battle, that from all quarters help may come; I will sow the land with arms.'

'Look, discord has grown into deadly war, just as you wished. Now tell them to make peace and join forces. Since I have stained the Trojans with Ausonian blood, I will do this too, if you assure me it is your wish. With my rumors, I will draw the neighboring towns into war. I will stir them to a furious desire for battle, so that help comes from every direction. I will fill the land with weapons.'

Then Juno answering: 'Terror and harm is wrought abundantly. The springs of war are aflow: they fight with arms in their grasp, the arms that chance first supplied, that fresh blood stains. Let this be the union, this the bridal that Venus' illustrious progeny and Latinus the King shall celebrate. Our Lord who reigns on Olympus' summit would not have thee stray too freely in heaven's upper air. Withdraw thy presence. Whatsoever future remains in the struggle, that I myself will sway.'

Then Juno replied: 'Enough terror and harm have been done. War has begun. They are fighting with the first weapons they could find, and those weapons are stained with fresh blood. Let this be the union, the wedding that Venus' illustrious offspring and King Latinus celebrate. Our Lord, who rules from the summit of Olympus, would not want you to roam too freely through the upper air. Leave now. Whatever remains of the struggle, I will direct it myself.'

Such accents uttered the daughter of Saturn; and the other raises her rustling snaky wings and darts away from the high upper air to Cocytus her home. There is a place midmost of Italy, deep in the hills, notable and famed of rumour in many a country, the Vale of Amsanctus; on either hand a wooded ridge, dark with thick foliage, hems it in, and midway a torrent in swirling eddies shivers and echoes over the rocks. Here is shewn a ghastly pool, a breathing-hole of the grim lord of hell, and a vast chasm breaking into Acheron yawns with pestilential throat. In it the Fury sank, and relieved earth and heaven of her hateful influence.

The daughter of Saturn spoke these words. The other raised her rustling, snake-covered wings and darted down from the high sky to her home in Cocytus. Deep in the hills of central Italy lies the Vale of Amsanctus, a place famous in many lands. Wooded ridges, dark with thick foliage, enclose it on both sides. Between them, a torrent swirls and roars over the rocks. There a ghastly pool opens like a breathing hole for the grim lord of hell. A vast chasm leads down to Acheron, its gaping mouth foul with deadly vapors. The Fury sank into it, freeing earth and heaven from her hateful influence.

But therewithal the queenly daughter of Saturn puts the last touch to war. The shepherds pour in full tale from the battlefield into the town, bearing back their slain, the boy Almo and Galaesus' disfigured face, and cry on the gods and call on Latinus. Turnus is there, and amid the heat and outcry at the slaughter redoubles his terrors, crying that Teucrians are bidden to the kingdom, that a Phrygian race is mingling its taint with theirs, and he is thrust out of their gates. They too, the matrons of whose kin, struck by Bacchus, trample in choirs down the pathless woods—nor is Amata's name a little thing—they too gather together from all sides and weary themselves with the battle-cry. Omens and oracles of gods go down before them, and all under malign influence clamour for awful war. Emulously they surround Latinus' royal house. He withstands, even as a rock in ocean unremoved, as a rock in ocean when the great crash comes down, firm in its own mass among many waves slapping all about: in vain the crags and boulders hiss round it in foam, and the seaweed on its side is flung up and sucked away. But when he may in nowise overbear their blind counsel, and all goes at fierce Juno's beck, with many an appeal to gods and void sky, 'Alas!' he cries, 'we are broken of fate and driven helpless in the storm. With your very blood will you pay the price of this, O wretched men! Thee, O Turnus, thy crime, thee thine awful punishment shall await; too late wilt thou address to heaven thy prayers and supplication. For my rest was won, and my haven full at hand; I am robbed but of a happy death.' And without further speech he shut himself in the palace, and dropped the reins of state.

But now the queenly daughter of Saturn puts the final touch on the war. The shepherds stream from the battlefield into the town in full force. They carry back their dead, the boy Almo and Galaesus, whose face has been disfigured. They cry out to the gods and call on Latinus. Turnus is there. Amid the uproar and anger over the killing, he heightens their fears. He cries that Teucrians are invited to rule the kingdom, that a Phrygian race is polluting theirs, and that he himself is being driven from their gates. Others gather from all sides. Their female relatives, driven wild by Bacchus, are dancing in groups through the pathless woods. Amata's name carries no little weight among them. They too wear themselves out shouting for battle. Omens and the gods' oracles are swept aside. All are under an evil influence and clamor for terrible war. Eager to outdo one another, they surround Latinus' royal palace. He stands firm like a rock in the ocean when a great wave crashes down. The rock holds fast under its own weight as waves slap it from every side. Foam hisses around the crags and boulders, and seaweed is tossed up and dragged away from its sides, all in vain. But Latinus can do nothing to overcome their blind resolve, and everything goes as fierce Juno commands. He appeals again and again to the gods and the empty sky. "Alas!" he cries. "Fate has broken us and left us helpless in the storm. You wretched men will pay for this with your own blood! And you, Turnus, will face a terrible punishment for your crime. Too late you will pray and plead to heaven. My rest was already won, and my haven was close at hand. I have been robbed only of a happy death." Without another word, he shuts himself inside the palace and gives up control of the state.

There was a use in Hesperian Latium, which the Alban towns kept in holy observance, now Rome keeps, the mistress of the world, when they stir the War-God to enter battle; whether their hands prepare to carry war and weeping among Getae or Hyrcanians or Arabs, or to reach to India and pursue the Dawn, and reclaim their standards from the Parthian. There are twain gates of War, so runs their name, consecrate in grim Mars' sanctity and terror. An hundred bolts of brass and masses of everlasting iron shut them fast, and Janus the guardian never sets foot from their threshold. There, when the sentence of the Fathers stands fixed for battle, the Consul, arrayed in the robe of Quirinus and the Gabine cincture, with his own hand unbars the grating doors, with his own lips calls battles forth; then all the rest follow on, and the brazen trumpets blare harsh with consenting breath. With this use then likewise they bade Latinus proclaim war on the Aeneadae, and unclose the baleful gates. He withheld his hand, and shrank away averse from the abhorred service, and hid himself blindly in the dark. Then the Saturnian queen of heaven glided from the sky, with her own hand thrust open the lingering gates, and swung sharply back on their hinges the iron-bound doors of war. Ausonia is ablaze, till then unstirred and immoveable. Some make ready to march afoot over the plains; some, mounted on tall horses, ride amain in clouds of dust. All seek out arms; and now they rub their shields smooth and make their spearheads glitter with fat lard, and grind their axes on the whetstone: rejoicingly they advance under their standards and hear the trumpet note. Five great cities set up the anvil and sharpen the sword, strong Atina and proud Tibur, Ardea and Crustumeri, and turreted Antemnae. They hollow out head-gear to guard them, and plait wickerwork round shield-bosses; others forge breastplates of brass or smooth greaves of flexible silver. To this is come the honour of share and pruning-hook, to this all the love of the plough: they re-temper their fathers' swords in the furnace. And now the trumpets blare; the watchword for war passes along. One snatches a helmet hurriedly from his house, another backs his neighing horses into the yoke; and arrays himself in shield and mail-coat triple-linked with gold, and girds on his trusty sword.

There was a custom in Hesperian Latium that the Alban towns kept as a sacred rite. Now Rome, mistress of the world, keeps it when its people rouse the War-God to battle. They do this whether they prepare to bring war and weeping to the Getae, Hyrcanians, or Arabs, or to reach India, pursue the Dawn, and reclaim their standards from the Parthian. There are two gates called the Gates of War, sacred to grim Mars and filled with terror. A hundred bronze bolts and great masses of everlasting iron hold them shut. Janus, their guardian, never leaves the threshold. When the Fathers have made their decision for battle, the Consul opens the gates with his own hand. He wears the robe of Quirinus and the Gabine cincture, and with his own voice calls forth battle. Then everyone else joins him, and the bronze trumpets blare harshly in answer. In keeping with this custom, they urged Latinus to declare war on the Aeneadae and open the deadly gates. He held back his hand, shrank from the hated duty, and hid himself blindly in the dark. Then the Saturnian queen of heaven glided down from the sky. With her own hand she forced open the gates that had stayed shut, swinging the iron-bound doors of war sharply back on their hinges. Ausonia, until then quiet and unmoving, is ablaze. Some prepare to march on foot across the plains. Others ride swiftly on tall horses, raising clouds of dust. All seek out weapons. They polish their shields, make their spearheads shine with rich lard, and grind their axes on whetstones. They march joyfully beneath their standards and hear the trumpet sound. Five great cities set up anvils and sharpen swords: strong Atina, proud Tibur, Ardea, Crustumeri, and turreted Antemnae. They hollow out helmets for protection and weave wickerwork around the bosses of their shields. Others forge bronze breastplates or smooth greaves of flexible silver. The honor once given to plowshare and pruning hook, all the love once given to the plow, has turned to this work. They retemper their fathers' swords in the furnace. Now the trumpets blare, and the watchword for war passes from man to man. One man snatches a helmet from his house. Another backs his neighing horses into the yoke. He takes up his shield, puts on a coat of mail triple-linked with gold, and belts on his trusty sword.

Open now the gates of Helicon, goddesses, and stir the song of the kings that rose for war, the array that followed each and filled the plains, the men that even then blossomed, the arms that blazed in Italy the bountiful land: for you remember, divine ones, and you can recall; to us but a breath of rumour, scant and slight, is wafted down.

Goddesses, open the gates of Helicon and inspire the song of the kings who rose for war. Sing of the armies that followed each king and filled the plains, and of the men who were then in their prime. Sing of the weapons that blazed in Italy, that bountiful land. For you divine ones remember and can recall these things. But only a faint breath of rumor reaches us.

First from the Tyrrhene coast savage Mezentius, scorner of the gods, opens the war and arrays his columns. By him is Lausus, his son, unexcelled in bodily beauty by any save Laurentine Turnus, Lausus tamer of horses and destroyer of wild beasts; he leads a thousand men who followed him in vain from Agylla town; worthy to be happier in ancestral rule, and to have other than Mezentius for father.

First to begin the war is savage Mezentius, who scorns the gods. He comes from the Tyrrhene coast and draws up his troops. Beside him is his son Lausus, more handsome than any man except Laurentine Turnus. Lausus tames horses and kills wild beasts. He leads a thousand men who followed him from Agylla town in vain. He deserved a happier life ruling his ancestral lands, and a father other than Mezentius.

After them beautiful Aventinus, born of beautiful Hercules, displays on the sward his palm-crowned chariot and victorious horses, and carries on his shield his father's device, the hundred snakes of the Hydra's serpent-wreath. Him, in the wood of the hill Aventine, Rhea the priestess bore by stealth into the borders of light, a woman mingled with a god, after the Tirynthian Conqueror had slain Geryon and set foot on the fields of Laurentum, and bathed his Iberian oxen in the Tuscan river. These carry for war javelins and grim stabbing weapons, and fight with the round shaft and sharp point of the Sabellian pike. Himself he went on foot swathed in a vast lion skin, shaggy with bristling terrors, whose white teeth encircled his head; in such wild dress, the garb of Hercules clasped over his shoulders, he entered the royal house.

After them came the handsome Aventinus, son of the handsome Hercules. He showed off his palm-crowned chariot and victorious horses on the grass. His shield bore his father’s emblem, the hundred snakes of the Hydra’s serpent wreath. Rhea, a priestess, secretly gave birth to him in the woods on Aventine hill. She was a mortal woman who had joined with a god. This happened after the Tirynthian Conqueror killed Geryon, reached the fields of Laurentum, and bathed his Iberian oxen in the Tuscan river. Aventinus’s men carried javelins and fearsome stabbing weapons into battle. They fought with Sabellian pikes, which had round shafts and sharp points. Aventinus himself went on foot, wrapped in a huge lion skin, shaggy with fearsome bristles. Its white teeth encircled his head. Wearing this wild outfit, with Hercules’ garment fastened over his shoulders, he entered the royal house.

Next twin brothers leave Tibur town, and the people called by their brother Tiburtus' name, Catillus and valiant Coras, the Argives, and advance in the forefront of battle among the throng of spears: as when two cloud-born Centaurs descend from a lofty mountain peak, leaving Homole or snowy Othrys in rapid race; the mighty forest yields before them as they go, and the crashing thickets give them way.

Next come the twin brothers Catillus and brave Coras, the Argives. They leave Tibur town and its people, who are named after their brother Tiburtus. They advance at the front of the battle, among a crowd of spears. They are like two cloud-born Centaurs racing down from a high mountain peak, leaving Homole or snowy Othrys behind. The great forest gives way before them, and the thickets crash as they pass.

Nor was the founder of Praeneste city absent, the king who, as every age hath believed, was born of Vulcan among the pasturing herds, and found beside the hearth, Caeculus. On him a rustic battalion attends in loose order, they who dwell in steep Praeneste and the fields of Juno of Gabii, on the cool Anio and the Hernican rocks dewy with streams; they whom rich Anagnia, and whom thou, lord Amasenus, pasturest. Not all of them have armour, nor shields and clattering chariots. The most part shower bullets of dull lead; some wield in their hand two darts, and have for head-covering caps of tawny wolfskin; their left foot is bare wherewith to plant their steps; the other is covered with a boot of raw hide.

Caeculus, the king who founded Praeneste, was there too. People in every age have believed that he was born of Vulcan among grazing herds and found beside the hearth. A loosely ordered band of country fighters followed him. They lived in steep Praeneste, in the fields of Juno of Gabii, along the cool Anio, and on the Hernican rocks wet with streams. They came from rich Anagnia and from the lands where you, lord Amasenus, give them pasture. Not all of them had armor, shields, or clattering chariots. Most showered their enemies with dull lead bullets. Some carried two darts and wore caps of tawny wolfskin. Their left feet were bare as they stepped forward. Their other feet were covered with rawhide boots.

But Messapus, tamer of horses, the seed of Neptune, whom none might ever strike down with steel or fire, calls quickly to arms his long unstirred peoples and bands disused to war, and again handles the sword. These are of the Fescennine ranks and of Aequi Falisci, these of Soracte's fortresses and the fields of Flavina, and Ciminus' lake and hill, and the groves of Capena. They marched in even time, singing their King; as whilome snowy swans among the thin clouds, when they return from pasturage, and utter resonant notes through their long necks; far off echoes the river and the smitten Asian fen. . . . Nor would one think these vast streaming masses were ranks clad in brass; rather that, high in air, a cloud of hoarse birds from the deep gulf was pressing to the shore.

But Messapus, the horse tamer and son of Neptune, quickly calls his long-idle peoples and their war-weary bands to arms. No one could ever strike him down with steel or fire. Now he takes up the sword again. His men come from the Fescennine ranks and Aequi Falisci, from Soracte's fortresses and Flavina's fields, from Ciminus' lake and hill, and from the groves of Capena. They marched in step, singing of their King. They were like snowy swans among the thin clouds, returning from their feeding grounds. The swans send ringing cries through their long necks. Far away, the river and the Asian marsh echo with the sound. . . . No one would think these vast streaming masses were ranks clad in bronze. They seemed more like a cloud of hoarse birds flying high from the deep gulf toward the shore.

Lo, Clausus of the ancient Sabine blood, leading a great host, a great host himself; from whom now the Claudian tribe and family is spread abroad since Rome was shared with the Sabines. Alongside is the broad battalion of Amiternum, and the Old Latins, and all the force of Eretum and the Mutuscan oliveyards; they who dwell in Nomentum town, and the Rosean country by Velinus, who keep the crags of rough Tetrica and Mount Severus, Casperia and Foruli, and the river of Himella; they who drink of Tiber and Fabaris, they whom cold Nursia hath sent, and the squadrons of Horta and the tribes of Latinium; and they whom Allia, the ill-ominous name, severs with its current; as many as the waves that roll on the Libyan sea-floor when fierce Orion sets in the wintry surge; as thick as the ears that ripen in the morning sunlight on the plain of the Hermus or the yellowing Lycian tilth. Their shields clatter, and earth is amazed under the trampling of their feet.

Here comes Clausus, of ancient Sabine blood. He leads a great army and is an army in himself. From him the Claudian tribe and family have spread far and wide since Rome was shared with the Sabines. With him marches the large battalion of Amiternum, along with the Old Latins. All the forces of Eretum and the olive groves of Mutusca are there too. There are those who live in Nomentum and in the Rosean country by Velinus. There are those who occupy the crags of rugged Tetrica and Mount Severus, Casperia and Foruli, and the river Himella. There are those who drink from the Tiber and Fabaris, and those sent by cold Nursia. There are the squadrons of Horta and the tribes of Latinium. There are also those separated by the current of the Allia, a name of ill omen. They are as numerous as the waves rolling over the Libyan sea floor when fierce Orion sets amid winter storms. They are as thick as the ears of grain ripening in the morning sunlight on the plain of the Hermus or in the yellowing fields of Lycia. Their shields clatter, and the earth is stunned by the pounding of their feet.

Here Agamemnonian Halaesus, foe of the Trojan name, yokes his chariot horses, and draws a thousand warlike peoples to Turnus; those who turn with spades the Massic soil that is glad with wine; whom the elders of Aurunca sent from their high hills, and the Sidicine low country hard by; and those who leave Cales, and the dweller by the shallows of Volturnus river, and side by side the rough Saticulan and the Oscan bands. Polished maces are their weapons, and these it is their wont to fit with a tough thong; a target covers their left side, and for close fighting they have crooked swords.

Here Halaesus, Agamemnon’s son and an enemy of the Trojan name, harnesses his chariot horses. He brings a thousand warlike peoples to Turnus. Among them are those who dig the wine-rich Massic soil with spades. Others were sent by the elders of Aurunca from their high hills and from the nearby Sidicine lowlands. Others leave Cales and the shallows of the Volturnus river. With them come the rough Saticulan and the Oscan bands. Their weapons are polished maces, which they customarily fasten with a tough leather strap. A small shield covers their left side, and they carry curved swords for close combat.

Nor shalt thou, Oebalus, depart untold of in our verses, who wast borne, men say, by the nymph Sebethis to Telon, when he grew old in rule over Capreae the Teleboïc realm: but not so content with his ancestral fields, his son even then held down in wide sway the Sarrastian peoples and the meadows watered by Sarnus, and the dwellers in Rufrae and Batulum, and the fields of Celemnae, and they on whom from her apple orchards Abella city looks down. Their wont was to hurl lances in Teutonic fashion; their head covering was stripped bark of the cork tree, their shield-plates glittering brass, glittering brass their sword.

Nor will you, Oebalus, go unmentioned in our verses. People say the nymph Sebethis bore you to Telon in his old age, while he ruled Capreae, the Teleboïc realm. But you were not content with your ancestral lands. Even then, you ruled widely over the Sarrastian peoples and the meadows watered by Sarnus. You also ruled the people of Rufrae and Batulum, the fields of Celemnae, and those overlooked by Abella and its apple orchards. Your people used to hurl lances in the Teutonic fashion. They wore stripped cork tree bark on their heads. Their shield plates and swords were made of glittering brass.

Thee too, Ufens, mountainous Nersae sent forth to battle, of noble fame and prosperous arms, whose race on the stiff Aequiculan clods is rough beyond all other, and bred to continual hunting in the woodland; they till the soil in arms, and it is ever their delight to drive in fresh spoils and live on plunder.

Mountainous Nersae sent you, too, Ufens, into battle. You were renowned for your noble fame and success in arms. Your people live on the hard Aequiculan soil. They are rougher than any other people and are raised to hunt constantly in the woods. They farm with weapons in hand and always delight in carrying home fresh spoils and living on plunder.

Furthermore there came, sent by King Archippus, the priest of the Marruvian people, dressed with prosperous olive leaves over his helmet, Umbro excellent in valour, who was wont with charm and touch to sprinkle slumberous dew on the viper's brood and water-snakes of noisome breath. Yet he availed not to heal the stroke of the Dardanian spear-point, nor was the wound of him helped by his sleepy charms and herbs culled on the Massic hills. Thee the woodland of Angitia, thee Fucinus' glassy wave, thee the clear pools wept. . . .

King Archippus also sent Umbro, a priest of the Marruvian people, who wore flourishing olive leaves on his helmet. Umbro was exceptionally brave. With spells and a touch, he could sprinkle sleep-inducing dew on young vipers and foul-breathed water snakes. Yet he could not heal the wound from the Dardanian spear-point. His sleep-inducing spells and herbs gathered on the Massic hills could not help him. The woods of Angitia wept for you, as did the glassy waters of Fucinus and the clear pools. . . .

Likewise the seed of Hippolytus marched to war, Virbius most excellent in beauty, sent by his mother Aricia. The groves of Egeria nursed him round the spongy shore where Diana's altar stands rich and gracious. For they say in story that Hippolytus, after he fell by his stepmother's treachery, torn asunder by his frightened horses to fulfil a father's revenge, came again to the daylight and heaven's upper air, recalled by Diana's love and the drugs of the Healer. Then the Lord omnipotent, indignant that any mortal should rise from the nether shades to the light of life, launched his thunder and hurled down to the Stygian water the Phoebus-born, the discoverer of such craft and cure. But Trivia the bountiful hides Hippolytus in a secret habitation, and sends him away to the nymph Egeria and the woodland's keeping, where, solitary in Italian forests, he should spend an inglorious life, and have Virbius for his altered name. Whence also hoofed horses are kept away from Trivia's temple and consecrated groves, because, affrighted at the portents of the sea, they overset the chariot and flung him out upon the shore. Notwithstanding did his son train his ruddy steeds on the level plain, and sped charioted to war.

Hippolytus’s son also marched to war. He was Virbius, a man of exceptional beauty, sent by his mother Aricia. The groves of Egeria nurtured him by the marshy shore, where Diana’s altar stands splendid and honored. The story goes that Hippolytus fell through his stepmother’s treachery. His frightened horses tore him apart, fulfilling his father’s revenge. But Diana’s love and the Healer’s medicines brought him back to daylight and the air of the world above. Then the Lord omnipotent grew angry that any mortal should rise from the shades below into the light of life. He hurled a thunderbolt at the son of Phoebus who had discovered this art of healing. The bolt cast him down to the waters of the Styx. But generous Trivia hid Hippolytus in a secret dwelling. She sent him to the care of the nymph Egeria and the woods. There he would live alone, without glory, in the Italian forests, under the new name Virbius. For this reason, horses are kept away from Trivia’s temple and sacred groves. Frightened by signs from the sea, they overturned his chariot and threw him onto the shore. Nevertheless, his son trained his reddish horses on the flat plain and raced to war in his chariot.

Himself too among the foremost, splendid in beauty of body, Turnus moves armed and towers a whole head over all. His lofty helmet, triple-tressed with horse-hair, holds high a Chimaera breathing from her throat Aetnean fires, raging the more and exasperate with baleful flames, as the battle and bloodshed grow fiercer. But on his polished shield was emblazoned in gold Io with uplifted horns, already a heifer and overgrown with hair, a lofty design, and Argus the maiden's warder, and lord Inachus pouring his stream from his embossed urn. Behind comes a cloud of infantry, and shielded columns thicken over all the plains; the Argive men and Auruncan forces, the Rutulians and old Sicanians, the Sacranian ranks and Labicians with painted shields; they who till thy dells, O Tiber, and Numicus' sacred shore, and whose ploughshare goes up and down on the Rutulian hills and the Circaean headland, over whose fields Jupiter of Anxur watches, and Feronia glad in her greenwood: and where the marsh of Satura lies black, and cold Ufens winds his way along the valley-bottoms and sinks into the sea.

Turnus himself moves among the foremost, armed and splendid in his physical beauty. He towers a full head above everyone else. His high helmet has three crests of horsehair and bears a Chimaera breathing Aetnean fire from her throat. As the battle and bloodshed grow fiercer, she rages more fiercely with deadly flames. But his polished shield bears a golden image of Io, her horns raised. She has already become a heifer and grown a coat of hair. The grand design also shows Argus, the maiden’s guard, and lord Inachus pouring his stream from his embossed urn. Behind Turnus comes a cloud of infantry, and columns of shielded men crowd the plains. There are the Argive men and Auruncan forces, the Rutulians and old Sicanians, the Sacranian ranks and Labicians with painted shields. There are those who farm your valleys, O Tiber, and the sacred shore of Numicus. Their plows work the Rutulian hills and the Circaean headland, and Jupiter of Anxur watches over their fields. Feronia rejoices in her greenwood there. They also come from where the marsh of Satura lies black, and cold Ufens winds along the valley floors before flowing into the sea.

Therewithal came Camilla the Volscian, leading a train of cavalry, squadrons splendid with brass: a warrior maiden who had never used her woman's hands to Minerva's distaff or wool-baskets, but hardened to endure the battle shock and outstrip the winds with racing feet. She might have flown across the topmost blades of unmown corn and left the tender ears unhurt as she ran; or sped her way over mid sea upborne by the swelling flood, nor dipt her swift feet in the water. All the people pour from house and field, and mothers crowd to wonder and gaze at her as she goes, in rapturous astonishment at the royal lustre of purple that drapes her smooth shoulders, at the clasp of gold that intertwines her tresses, at the Lycian quiver she carries, and the pastoral myrtle shaft topped with steel.

Camilla the Volscian came with them, leading cavalry squadrons splendid in brass. A warrior maiden, she had never used her hands for Minerva's distaff or wool baskets. Instead, she had trained herself to endure the shock of battle and outrun the wind. She could have raced across the tops of uncut grain without harming the tender ears. She could have sped across the open sea, carried by the swelling waves, without dipping her swift feet in the water. All the people poured out of their homes and fields as she passed. Mothers crowded around to marvel at her. They gazed in wonder at the royal purple draped over her smooth shoulders and the gold clasp entwined in her hair. They admired the Lycian quiver she carried and her shepherd's myrtle spear tipped with steel.